


Traditions

by SunlitGarden



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Betty the People-Pleaser, Betty's really forgiving, Bughead Secret Santa, Christmas, Christmas Cookies, Couch-bed sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Holidays, I Love You, Insecurity, Jughead Jones Needs a Hug, Love Confessions, Ninja-Bread Men, POV Jughead Jones, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 08:25:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunlitGarden/pseuds/SunlitGarden
Summary: The holidays are all about traditions, but unfortunately for Jughead Jones that means feeling inferior and putting his foot in his mouth. Maybe this year, the first with college girlfriend Betty Cooper, and the first in years with Gladys and JB, he'll make some new ones.





	Traditions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [milkshakesandmurders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkshakesandmurders/gifts).



> Requested: angst, fluff, and smut, in any combination. Hopefully it's pleasurable for all of you readers and especially my secret santa recipient [@milkshakesandmurders](milkshakesandmurders.tumblr.com). She's done some AMAZING holiday prompts so check her out too. AFTER this of course ^-^ Enjoy!

Curled up in the basement, Jughead tries to ignore the visible mist every time he breathes.

_Pick a spot on the wall and stare_ , he instructs himself, avoiding the pleading gaze to his left.

“Juggie—”

“I don’t care if you read the stupid story,” he huffs. She doesn’t move. “Go. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? For them to _love_ you? Little Miss Perfect?”

She flinches but stands her ground, fists curling at her side. Even in his peripheral she’s the brightest thing in the world. A regular Christmas tree angel. A miracle. Rubbing the salt in his already open wound that he’s not…he’ll _never_ be good enough.

A deep, wet breath is enough to make him turn.

_Fuck_.

He’s made her cry. Maybe not _actually_ cry, but certainly tear up. Her throat does that wobbly thing when she’s holding it in, eyes glassy and wide open like she’s afraid if she blinks it’ll break the barrier between upset and together.

“Betts…”

“I’m not.” Her voice catches, and he feels like stumbling towards her closed fists and holding her until it steadies again. Wounded pride chains him to his place. “I’m not perfect. And I did’t want _them_ to love me. I just…I thought that _you_ would.”

A tightness stretches unforgivingly across his body like he’s just wrapped his own face in cellophane. “You’re not—”

“Betty?” Gladys’s shout overrides anything he’s trying to say. “You coming back up?”

Pushing her shoulders back, Betty’s voice sounds normal and cheery again. “Just grabbing my slippers, be right there!” Betty snags the hideously precious teddy-bear slippers her sister got her two years ago, their beady eyes flat and cold as she shoves them on to mute her footsteps up the stairs.

_Shit_.

His teeth grind together. It’s so _cold_ that his knees keep jostling, but he doesn’t feel like he should reach for the extra blanket Betty’d left out on the couch. He assumes he’ll have to relocate soon enough. But Gladys never calls him up. _Better to leave him on his own_ , as she’d say. _Work through his issues_.

Like Gladys and FP haven’t been the main cause of them.

And now he’s taking it out on Betty.

What a crap-tastic circle of life.

Sighing, he leans his head back and tries to wipe the tension off his face. At least from here he can’t hear the story, which means the people upstairs can’t hear _them_ at night…should…there be anything to hear. Given the current situation, it’s doubtful there’ll be anything but arguing to avoid. Hell, Jellybean will probably invite Betty to stay in _her_ room tonight. Practice playing darts, drink hot cocoa, make fun of the claymation Christmas specials. And he’ll be down here with shoddy wi-fi and some old quilts to keep him company.

He _never_ even gets to see JB.

It just…it _sucks_.

There’s only one tradition he’s actually a part of and they gave it to the next person who walked into the house. Someone who isn’t a wreck. Who’s _likable_.

If he stays down here, the only thing it’s going to prove is that they can shove him in the basement and pretend he doesn’t exist along with all their other problems.

“Screw it,” he mutters, hauling another jacket on like it’s armor and heading up the stairs.

“ _In the hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there…”_

Betty must’ve been stalling. They’re not far in the story at all, her fingers trembling just slightly with the turn of the page. Even his grandparents are listening to her without a scowl on their faces, the harsh frowns and twitchy smiling lips completely absent in her presence. Gladys absently plays with Jellybean’s hair, smiling into her wine glass. His sister is sitting on her knees like she’s a little kid, transported into the magic of childhood with an open, captivated expression on her face.

None of them glance at him except for Betty, who just as quickly looks back at the page as if it can hide her emotions and transport her somewhere else. He leans against the door frame and waits.

Her delivery’s like that of a kid telling a secret, quiet, leaning. Like the whole room should be listening for the clatter of hooves, the tinkling of silver bells amidst the cackling fire. He’d usually read it like a mystery, like something to be unfolded. She almost whispers it like a lullaby, a ballet symphony with a bag of a magic dust.

Although he always loved Jellybean’s undivided attention at his feet, he’s never enjoyed the narrative itself. It’s just a stupid story. He’s basically straddled the line between mocking the tale and hamming it up.

But Betty…is doing her best. It’s what she always does.

She glances up at him as if gauging his level of apology. He tries to smile against weighted cheeks, hoping that she gets it. That it’s okay. It’s not her fault. He’s…sorry, for ruining this for her, like it’s sort of being ruined for him.

“ _But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—”_

The fixedness of her gaze grips him, a silent, direct cue.

“ _Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”_

His family turns, surprised to see him again. Jellybean laughs.

“I thought you were Scrooge! Not Santa.”

“Common mistake. I like to think it’s because I’m so thin,” he shrugs, tossing a lopsided smile at Betty as his sister gets up to give him a hug. “Did you think I could just hand off my role to an amateur?”

“Hey,” Betty protests good-naturedly, carefully folding the book so it doesn’t crease.

“She did a great job!”

“I heard,” he agrees. “Definitely kicked my ass.” The rough language earns him some eye rolls, but he ignores them in favor of Jellybean’s attention. Even though he’s grateful for easy conversation with his sister, he can’t help tearing his gaze away to Betty once in a while, making sure she’s okay. _They’re_ okay.

She’s guarded, though. The smile on her face seems small, genuine, but she’s avoiding anyone’s direct gaze for more than a moment. Those eyes of hers can show him the world, and right now they’re turned away from him.

Gladys tucks a leg under her to lean closer, chatting and gesturing as the grandparents fall into their usual muffled complaints and reminiscence. Betty actively listens, delicately sipping her hot cocoa, the marshmallows occasionally leaving a chalk imprint on the tip of her nose.

If they were alone, he’d wipe it off with his thumb.

Her tongue swipes her upper lip, just a flash of rosy pink, and he wishes he could go to her. Maybe take her somewhere private and clear the air. Kiss away her nerves, push out his negative energy. Thank her, for everything.

She was just… _Betty_ …and she let him be St. Nick, even when he was being a total Scrooge.

He thinks he loves her.

No, he _knows_ , it’s just…hard to think about.

Impossible, really.

 

~~

 

Last year Betty sat at their usual lunch table, nervous gaze hovering on him long enough that he felt his ears burn and tried to find his sandwich extremely interesting.

“What are your plans for the holidays, Jug?”

“Nothing, really. I might hide out and drink my body weight in eggnog while watching _Die Hard_ for the thousandth time.”

Her fingers crept along the edge of her tray, food untouched. She picked at the plastic, and Jughead found himself fascinated by the white flaky texture shedding like skin (or maybe snow) that fell to the table. “Maybe if you’re not busy, you’d like to come home with me for the holidays?”

If he’d been drinking anything, he’s pretty sure he would’ve spat it all over the table in surprise. He looked around to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. Kevin was pretending not to eavesdrop, turned towards Veronica and holding his breath. Archie’d been oblivious, only looking over when he felt eyes on him. An annoyed Veronica continued on about her overbearing father trying to buy her forgiveness for some faux pas or another. But Betty was still waiting, her fists curling into her skirt, lip between her teeth as she waited for an answer.

So he went with what made sense.

“Uh…no thanks.”

Lips thinning, she nodded, quickly averting her gaze to her lunch and idly commenting when Veronica needed her.

The whole day he’d felt weird. Like the pretzel bread from lunch was still stuck in his throat. He chugged cup after cup of coffee under the guise of being a college student who needed caffeine, but something still felt wrong.

“Do you think I insulted her?” Jughead asked Archie a few days later, anxious energy still coursing through him when he noticed Betty’s eyes were strained around the edges when she smiled at him.

“Yeah, probably. I mean, you didn’t have any solid plans. Why’d you say no?”

He rubbed the back of his head through the soft wool beanie that’d been with him for the better part of a decade. “I don’t know. Isn’t it weird, meeting the parents? That’s something you do with someone you’re…invested in. Dating,” he swallowed, trying to suppress the remnants of coffee breath.

“I invited you to my place,” Archie reminded him.

“Yeah, but with you it’s different. I’ve met Fred at parent days and stuff. The Coopers probably don’t want their daughter bringing home someone like _me_.”

Archie’d took one sweeping look at him: worn combat boots, low-slung jeans, flannel over his middle-school t-shirt, and a beanie he’d had even longer. “What’s wrong with you?”

Wasn’t that the million-dollar question?

He’d spent most of the break with sweaty hands, actually responding to the group chats he normally muted. Archie’s dog Vegas kept nosing his palm for pets, most likely because the furry friend could sense his anxiety. Betty texted Jughead outside of the group chat, a “merry xmas jug! <3 xoxo” followed by a string of holiday emojis he couldn’t even see next to the kisses and hearts. He called her. Rambled about nothing, enjoyed her laugh, missed his own crazy family, and desperately wanted to smell the gingerbread baked into her hair after crafts with her sister’s twins.

“Are you going back to campus for New Year’s?”

“I’m not sure yet. V wants me to go to a party in New York City, but I’m sure that’d be a total nightmare.”

“Spend it with me.”

He felt desperate, ridiculous for offering her movies and pizza when she could be having chocolates and champagne. She took a day to collect her thoughts, but called him later to iron out the details of his proposal.

The day she got back he helped her carry her luggage. Their hug was long enough to smell the lingering spices in her hair, to feel her warmth seep into his bones. She brought him leftovers in tiny snowman-covered tupperware and laughed as he tried to use chopsticks in an attempt to be _festive_ when really she knew that he didn’t have any clean forks left.

He loved her. He knew it then, but…

He wasn’t brave until New Year’s Eve. Tentatively, making sure it was okay, they’d leaned together, her skin soft and warm under his touch.

“I love you, Betty Cooper,” he’d wanted to say, but only managed, “ _Betty_ ,” before being consumed by the need to kiss her. It was like his heart had been stretched to the point of breaking. But she kissed him back, and somehow nothing fell apart. It just grew.

They didn’t sleep together for three more weeks, once the shock wore off that this—that _they_ were really happening. It was singularly the best experience of his life. Not just the sex part, but just being _close_ to someone like that… _to her_.

It struck him as something impossible. Her hair larger than life out of its signature elastic. His name falling from her lips in breathy moans. How could someone so bright even _look_ at someone named _Jughead_ , let alone come for him?

 

The rest of the year was a treasure trove of stolen moments: kissing in the library study rooms, relaxing in booths with his arm around her shoulders, sharing cafeteria trays, rehashing flashcards for the eight thousandth time just to be _sure_ they both aced the Spanish test, red pens that transferred from their papers to their skin in little inky reminders that they cared. She’d draw hearts on post-its, B+J written inside (to which he’d make an obvious joke about b.j.’s, kissing her forehead as she slapped his shoulder). He’d pass her notes with hieroglyphics of an eye, a heart, and something else (occasionally a ponytail), but they’d never say _it_. Not for real.

Ending a casual phone call, he’d accidentally let it slip. “Love you.”

A sharp inhale, her bright voice hurriedly declaring, “Love you too!” before he ended the call.

Although his chest swirled with glee and horror, he didn’t dare say it for real. Three words strung together that he’d never heard in his house, not in anything stable. They’d been slurred, a desperate plea. Something he hated to hear, because he knew it was never enough.

_You’re so good, Jug, takin’ care of your old man. I love you, kid._

_Of course I love you, Jug. I just…Jellybean needs me right now. Maybe you can visit next year. Things are tight right now._

They stung, those three words.

He didn’t want to slap Betty with them.

 

Thanksgiving was a test, one he barely made it out of alive. The Coopers’ thinly-veiled criticism was only muted by Betty’s hand in his, by the food he stuffed unceremoniously down his throat to prevent lashing out. They’d left right after the meal, resting in silence while her fingers massaged the knots out of his curls.

“They don’t want me to be happy. That’s why they said those things, Jug. They’re afraid of anything that’s outside of their control. You…being with you makes me feel free, like I can do anything. You’ll never be someone they can control, and I…” her voice caught. “I appreciate that. I appreciate you for coming with me, Jug. You’re…you’re my family too, you know? You are.” Her lips pressed against his mouth, his cheek, his brow, and into his curls, easing his mind.

_I love you_ , he’d wanted to say, but the soothing sensation of being wrapped around his girl was too much, and soon the domesticity dragged him into slumber. By the time they woke up, Archie was back, and Jughead was going to be damned if he told his girlfriend he loved her in front of their best friend right after her family basically treated him as the human equivalent of a dog whose shots needed to be up to date.

He’d always been damned anyway.

That’s why he wasn’t surprised when his mom called, casually dropping that she’d like to meet his girlfriend for Christmas.

“It’s been three years,” he said stiffly.

“All the better to catch up, then,” Gladys quipped, as if it was the most normal conversation in the world.

Apparently having Betty in his life was a sign that he was _stable_ enough to be a more solid presence in Jellybean’s.

But he…he by himself hadn’t been enough.

 

 

~~

 

 

“Hey,” he smiles, pushing off the door frame with one hand.

She offers him a brief flicker of a smile, continuing to wash out her hot chocolate mug like the helpful house guest she is. “Hey.”

“I just…wanted to check if you were okay.”

“Yeah, why?”

His fingertips trace the edge of her sweater. It’s an old one. He thinks Polly gave it to her a few years ago for Christmas. Muscle memory wants to go under it and trace her hip bone, but he shouldn’t. Not upstairs. Not where people can see.

_I love you, Betty Cooper_.

“I’m just…I’m sorry for freaking out earlier. You know how grateful I am that you came out here, right?”

“Sure.”

The weak acknowledgement tightens the gut feeling that he hasn’t exactly been a great boyfriend, let alone _date_ , the past few weeks.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pressing a long kiss into her hair. It doesn’t smell like spices, but he does get a whiff of her peppermint shampoo. It’s a seasonal choice. In the summer, it’s lavender, but none of it matters except that he has the privilege of knowing it. “I should be happy that they love you. I am. I just keep wishing that they’d make me feel welcome too.” Betty stiffens under his touch, listening with an intensity that _should_ scare him, but doesn’t. “I mean, your house was a hot zone but at least it still felt like _yours_. I was never a part of this life they built here _._ It’s like I don’t even know them beyond half-memories of when I was a kid. They definitely don’t know much about who I am now.”

He glances at the refrigerator, noting a group picture of the at-risk kids his mom works with at the garage, Jellybean posing like she’s too cool off to the side. But no photos of her own son. Not like she’s ever asked, or friended him on social media. She literally popped up on the “People You May Know” tab one day. It was a pretty depressing insinuation to come from a screen.

Betty’s studying his face and the fridge like she can soothe his thoughts if only she finds the right pattern, if only she tries hard enough.

He kisses her brow, trying to suggest she let her brain rest. It’s not like she needs to unpack years of family bullshit for the holidays. Never one to be thrown off track, Betty still tries to search his expression for answers.

Even _thinking_ about this sucks, so he can’t quite look at her when he reveals, “ _Years_ of their lives are a complete mystery to me, and suddenly you came along and you’re the most interesting thing about me. The only thing even worth reaching out for. It just made me feel like I’ll never be enough for them.”

“Jug,” she protests, brow furrowing.

“No, it’s not your fault. And you are interesting. You’re…” He searches for a word that won’t sound like he’s describing a Holiday Barbie. “Brilliant. Spectacular. Helpful. Generous. _Forgiving_. Basically everything the Christmas spirit demands of the holiday, and for whatever reason, you’re mine.” He doesn’t mean it in a possessive way, trying to keep his voice soft. She nods, understanding. “But I’m…yours. I’m sorry if I haven’t been acting like it. I’m happy you’re here. I’m always lucky you’re with me, Betty. I’m sorry that I’ve been getting in my own head. I _want_ to be here with you and to make this Christmas special, especially since you were nice enough to invite me to yours last year.”

Hesitantly, her hands move between his arms to clasp behind his back as she stares up into his face. “Is that all?”

He feels his cheeks color, hoping she _knows_ the rest. “Well, mostly, yeah. So…I apologize for being a Scrooge.”

“You do know that just being with you makes things special, right? When you’re not sulking or storming off…it’s actually really nice. I’m sorry that they’ve never really made you feel welcome, Juggie, but I don’t know what you expected me to do here. Be mean to them? Or that they’d be rude to me?”

A shaky sigh works through him, his arms closing in around her shoulders to bring her against his heart. “I don’t know. I have a tendency to self-destruct and assume the worst of people in times of stress. I’ll try not to, at least for now.”

“It _is_ the holidays,” she murmurs against his skin, so perfectly molded to him that he wishes they could just go to bed and cuddle. But he has a sister to reconnect with and a mom to impress or chew out and grandparents to tolerate.

“All right. Let’s do this.” They both lean back, hips still connected like they’re loathe to part. He can’t help but kiss her forehead, her nose, and her lips in quick succession, hands grounded on her shoulders.

_I really do love you,_ he wants to reassure her.

 

 

A laugh peals out of him, loud and true, before he can even pretend to reign it in for his grandparents. It’s just too perfect of a present, and Betty’s never even met JB before.

JB stares open-mouthed at an assortment of oddly angled cookie-cutter shapes and a heap of cookie mix.

“Um, at my house we have this tradition of making gingerbread houses and stuff, so I thought maybe you might enjoy—“

“ _Ninja-Bread Men?_ ”

“Yes,” Betty finishes lamely.

JB’s face lights up with something akin to manic glee. “We’re _so_ gonna make these. Jughead, my ninja is gonna kick your ninja’s cookie ass.”

“Jellybean,” Gladys sighs, daring a glance at the disapproving grandparents.

“Sorry,” JB dims, eagerly turning back to Betty the next moment. “Can we make them now?”

“Sure. As long your family doesn’t mi—“

“They don’t care. Come on.” JB grabs Betty by the wrist, dragging her to the kitchen. Gladys opens her mouth to ask Jughead something when JB’s voice pierces the room. “Jughead, you coming?”

“Excuse me,” he grins, pushing off the couch to join his favorite girls. JB’s gathered a bunch of random bowls and pans, anxiously fidgeting with the cookie mix. “Hang on, let me open that. I’ve seen what you do to those cereal bags.”

“That was like…three years ago!” she gripes.

The reminder of the gaps between their lives stings a little. His elbows jerk as he pretends to wince into the effort of opening the bag. He can feel Betty watching him, ready to swoop in and save the day.

Thankfully they fall into a natural rhythm. Jellybean mixes so aggressively that a cloud of baking dust shoots up into the kitchen. Betty’s the measurer, the one who rolls the dough out until it’s even and smooth.

“You can’t just deem yourself The Taster,” JB protests. “You actually have to help in here, otherwise I’m sending you back out there to deal with the Grams and Mom.”

Impressed, Betty arches a challenging eyebrow in Jughead’s direction.

“Fine. I’ll be the shaper.”

“Perfect job for a wordsmith,” Betty muses, eyes glinting as she pats the rolling pin with one more layer of flour so nothing sticks.

With an alarming amount of brevity, Jughead takes up the first shape cutter, its ridges lean and firm. He pushes down into the dough, the slicing motion not quite enough to detach it in one go. Wriggling the shapes, he watches them come to life, free and jubilant and fighting amidst the general dough sludge they’ve been formed from. Both Betty and JB help him ball up the leftover dough, rolling over it to give him more surface to work with.

The little fighters go into the oven without their faces, but he can already see the expressions rising underneath, his fingers itching to dip into the decorative icing.

“Don’t even _think_ about it,” Betty warns.

Just to spite her, Jughead squeezes a drop of white icing out of its little tube onto his finger and promptly sucks it off.

“You…”

Instead of Betty’s chiding grin or snatching hands, Jughead’s startled out of consuming more contraband by his sister’s fairly decent shoulder punch.

“Stop eating their faces, you big idiot. Wait until _after_.”

“Oh, eating faces is for _after_ ,” he muses, wondering if she’s old enough to catch the heat he’s throwing at Betty. Thankfully, everyone rolls their eyes at him, but he doesn’t miss the way Betty nudges him with her hip on her way to oh-so-innocently wash her hands.

 

Everyone enjoys the Ninja-Bread Men, even the grandparents, who furrow their brows at the curious treats before tentatively taking a bite. With each thoughtful round of chewing, their lips purse closer together, teeth working towards a normal pace.

Gladys’s laugh is almost a yelp as she takes up one of the feisty-looking cookies. “Oh my god, that is precious. JB, you did this?”

“We all did,” Betty interjects, a swell of affection rolling across his heart like she’s squeezing it with that damn pin from earlier.

His mother considers the unlikely trio, the tattoos on her face almost starry enough to be considered festive. “Nice job, kids.”

Throat coated in crumbs, Jughead coughs. “Thanks, mom. Betty’s gift turned out to be quite the hit. Can I get anyone a glass of milk?”

A round of curiously appreciative affirmations is followed by JB’s stern, “Leave enough for Santa.”

“Geez, JB, I thought you were old enough to—“

“I know he’s not _real_ , but I like to hold onto _some_ traditions, okay?”

“Okay,” he accedes, wondering what the hell other traditions she likes to keep up for the sake of appearances. For the sake of nostalgia. He hasn’t noticed their stockings up, but maybe he just hasn’t seen them yet.

After dessert, the grandparents take their leave. “Goodnight, Forscythe, Betty,” they nod. Jughead grits his teeth in a grimace, Betty squeezing around his waist with a smile that more than makes up for his lack of one.

“Goodnight,” she says for both of them.

JB rolls her eyes once they’re down the driveway. “I had to train them out of calling me _Forscythia._ Now I’m just, _Jelly, dear._ ”

Amusement tints Betty’s intrigue. “How many years did that take?”

“ _Four._ And I’m still working on it. I don’t know what they have against _JB_.” Huffing, JB pops back onto the couch and snaps off a gingerbread leg. “So how are your grandparents, Betty? Do they call you _Elizabeth_?”

When Betty shifts, there’s a solid two inches that grows between them, Jughead quickly moving to close it by sliding his arm around her back. “No, my grandparents died when I was young. I don’t remember much about them.”

“Probably for the best,” JB shrugs, trying to fit the broken leg back together, just to see it whole again before dismantling and consuming the rest. “Mine—ours are a real pain in the ass.”

It’s a subtle slip, but he feels it nonetheless. Maybe Betty does too, judging by the way she folds her arms in on themselves and leans into him.

In an attempt to regain some semblance of stability, he expands his chest with a deep inhale. “So, what’s next on the agenda now that we’ve destroyed another timeless tradition of baking cookies and kicking ass? _Die Hard…_ or darts?”

 

Eventually Betty quietly disentangles herself from the fray and goes downstairs to wash up, probably to give him some solo time with his family. JB protests her absence, and soon goes to bed herself.

Then it’s just him and Gladys.

“So,” she says, dark eyes shining in the glow of cheap Christmas twinkle lights. “Betty, huh?”

The molten chocolate from his cup thickens in his throat, and he tries to stare at the glowing tree instead of his mom. “Yeah.”

“How do you think that’s going?”

“Well.”

“Well?” Gladys laughs with an easiness that usually comes from drinking wine. But she hasn’t, not unless she somehow snuck something into the hot chocolate, but that’d be some kind of unholy abomination not even _his_ family is capable of. “That’s it?”

“No. It’s just…” _Private._ “Our first holiday season as a couple. Kinda stressful, but she’s handling it like a champ.”

His mother’s eyes crinkle at the sides, and she nods a little too knowingly for his comfort. “Your dad and I had quite the first Christmas together. I remember he dragged in this little Charlie Brown Christmas tree in. We didn’t even light it up or anything. We just had this scraggly tree in our living room, no stand, propped up against the wall.” Her laugh is a little rueful, if fond, as she looks at the couch. “Just kids back then, kids who thought we knew it all.”

He’s not sure what to say to that, so he circulates the liquid in his cup, hoping the chocolate melts before it settles.

Lost in the past, his mom smirks. “The next year we stole Mustang’s tree out of his trailer. Spent three days looking for that thing while everyone called him The Grinch. We gave it back, but it was hilarious watching that snake try to peer in everyone’s windows. Got beat up by a few people who thought he was a Peeping Tom.”

“Wow. Sounds like the park sure had a lot of spirit.”

“We did. Hell, we all did. I’m sure you do too, kid.”

Gladys leans back, the mousse in her hair keeping her wavy curls thick and purposefully a little messy. His own curls tend to have a softer edge, like the cusp of a small wave, one Betty loves running her fingers through. Even he twists the stray locks until they sway into soft _s_ shapes. FP always said he’d go bald if he kept playing with them, so he tries not to, but sometimes…

“So do you think she’s the one?”

His heart jumps in his chest, starting awake. As if to brace herself for the shock on her son’s face, Gladys brings the mug of hot cocoa up to hide her prying smile.

“What—why…?”

Are these seriously the only questions she has after all these years?

“Just curious. Seems like you two are pretty serious.”

“We are.”

He’s not _trying_ to scowl. It’s just…the _audacity_.

“So…should I be expecting another Jones girl in the next couple of years?” Gladys is careful, not quite eager nor hostile to the idea.

“Relax, mom, we’re not even out of college.”

“Just saying,” she shrugs, leaning back with a posed relaxed quality. “Your dad and I got married young.”

“And look how that turned out.”

The silence eats at him a little. The ninja-bread man starts dissolving into his hot chocolate, crumbs floating to the edge of the cup.

“I know we haven’t lived a perfect, life, Jug. Things don’t always turn out the way you expect them to, and that can be a good thing. Betty seems…nice. Good for you.”

“She’s more than nice,” he mutters. “She’s…” _Perfect_. He knows Betty hates that word, but he feels it nonetheless. She’s the most perfect person he’s ever met. Even with the barely-there chin mole she’s inexplicably embarrassed by, her tendency to turn her stress inward and burn herself out, and the way she forgives way too easily. She’s… “The best.”

Gladys raises one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. “I’m sure she is.” They sit in somewhat amicable quiet until she looks up at the star on the tree. Jughead absently wonders if they used to have an angel up there, or if that’s just his imagination. “It’s so weird to see my little boy all grown up, bringing a girl home for the holidays.”

“You invited us, remember? First time in recent history.”

“Don’t start with that stuff,” she rolls her eyes, propping her elbow up on the couch. “It’s the holidays. I’m glad you seem to have found a…” _Family?_ he wants to supply, a bloated feeling taking hold in his chest. “Partner in this bullshit we call life. A cheerleader, if you will.”

His mouth quirks in an unbidden smile. Betty’s shown him pictures of her high school days, ponytail bouncing enthusiastically as her River Vixens skirt billowed up around her thighs. She’d only done cheerleading for a year before realizing what a time suck it was, but he treasures those photos (and her flexibility) nonetheless.

“Just remember to be her number one cheerleader, too.”

The advice strikes him as odd, especially considering his parents’ relationship (or whatever’s left of it). Does his mom… _know_ or somehow _sense_ he’s been a relatively unsupportive boyfriend this holiday season?

Sure, he’s constantly encouraging Betty when it comes to mental health and her work during the school year, but with the stress of the holidays, everything seems to be tying him in knots. Especially when it comes to families. His. Hers. This…expectation that things are going to fall apart because she’s too _good_ for him. Her family knows it. His family knows it. It’s only a matter of time before _she_ knows it.

A horrible, icy fear creeps up inside his chest.

What if she realizes he’s a selfish fuck-up with a broken family and cuts bait?

But the thought that makes him feel like mashed potatoes are lodged in his throat is that maybe after all this stuff, she thinks he doesn’t love her. That he _doesn’t_ support her, despite the apology he’d given her in the kitchen.

“I’ve gotta go,” he mutters, putting his cup to the side.

“One second. I think it’s time we let you in on a little secret.” His head quirks in confusion as he follows his mother’s leading gaze to the milk and cookies set out on an end table by the Christmas tree. “What do you say to a midnight snack, Santa?”

With the same bewildered acceptance of walking into breakfast-for-dinner at the cafeteria, Jughead wanders towards the plate.

“It’s all yours, kid,” Gladys offers easily, like it’s nothing. This isn’t a new tradition (but maybe it could be, his traitorous heart protests). “Just pass me whichever one you like the least.”

In the quiet of the night, Jughead and Gladys nibble on their cookies, sipping hot chocolate and gulping milk under the yellow-red glow of the Christmas tree. He ponders what this means, if it even means anything.

 

 

“How was the rest of your night?” Betty asks, back turned to him as she pulls down the blankets. Unlike at her parents house, they’re actually allowed to share a bed. There hadn’t been a discussion about it. At her house, there had been a single inflatable mattress in her father Hal’s study whereas her full-size childhood/summer bed had been made up in pink pastels for her return. That hadn’t stopped her from texting him at night, begging him to come up. They’d snuck in a few blissful kisses and cuddles (and yes, maybe some other pleasurable touching), but he’d been too paranoid to do anything else before sneaking back downstairs.

This time he can take it slow, enjoy the way her flannel pants curve around her bottom, the way her sleep shirt creeps up her midriff. She peeks over her shoulder, aware of her audience, and crawls into bed. “You coming?”

He tugs off his beanie, dropping it on the arm of the couch. “Yeah.” He slides into bed beside her, ignoring the way the couch-bed bar prods insistently against his ribs so he can wrap himself around her.

_Supportive._ The word rolls throughout his thoughts as they share everything about their day, Betty’s back flush against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, mouth pressed just behind her ear in the hopes that it’ll reach her better.

Her hand tightens around his, muscles tensing.

_I love you._

It shouldn’t be part of an apology.

“I want…I want to spend every holiday with you, Betty.” He feels her heartbeat skyrocket against him. “I mean, you don’t have to say yes—“ _I’m not proposing yet_ , he reminds himself as she turns around in his arms, eyes wide and bright. “But I just—I wanted to let you know that today wouldn’t have been even a sliver of this happy if you hadn’t been here.” He swallows, at a loss, but Betty patiently waits for his rambling thoughts to tumble out of his mouth. “I wouldn’t be as happy without you in my life. I…” Her fingers dance up onto either side of his jaw, his gaze magnetically drawn to her lips, her eyes. “I’m happy _for_ you. I want to be…I want _us_ to be…good for you, like it is for me. So…Merry Christmas and Happy New Year…from the luckiest guy in the world.” Feeling defeated, weak, even amidst her softening gaze, his nostrils flare. “Can I kiss you?”

Her chin dips in an imperceptible nod, their kiss sweet and lingering, strangely even more fulfilling than Santa’s milk and cookies.

_I love you, Betty Cooper._

He fights the words down, settling for pressing his forehead against her.

_I love you so fucking much._

The kisses renew with an unexpected vigor, mouths open, wet. He feels her leg shift over his, hooking them closer together. The heat of her makes his dick flex for attention.

“Juggie…”

The subtle shift of her hips is enough encouragement for him to let one hand wander underneath her shirt, up the subtle curve of her waist and onto her breast. She’s so unbelievably smooth. He lets his fingers slither across her nipple, plucking as it comes to attention, rolling it until she bites his lip in protest, demanding more.

“Sh, Betty. Santa knows you’ve been a good girl this year.”

She groans, whether it’s because he’s annoying or arousing is up for debate, but he sucks her pulse point until her pitch changes to something much more amenable.

Letting his hand fully start working her breast, Jughead lets his other start pushing down her pants, enjoying the way she wriggles out of them, underwear too, until he has an entire palm full of her unimpeded ass. He grinds against her center until she stutters, leaning away onto her back.

“Your pants…I don’t wanna get them dirty.”

Licking his lips to give himself the wet pressure he desires, Jughead palms himself where she’s grinded against him. The damp coating where she left her mark is enough to make his blood soar straight to his cock, and he whips off his shirt and pants faster than she can grab a paper towel.

“Later,” he reassures her, wrestling her back into his arms for more heated kissing.

“Jug—you’re—ah!”

It’s not even worth it to take off her top at this point. They shove the offending garment up above her breasts so she’s exposed, his mouth making quick work down her body until he finds the damp patch of curls waiting for him.

_I love you so much._

His tongue curls along her slit, nestling happily at the bundle of nerves that sets her gasping for air, neck arching back for relief. The familiar pressure of her hand in his hair relaxes him, even as he grounds his chin against her for more contact. It’s deliciously carnal, and he buries himself in it. Her sweetness coats his tongue, the tangy, creamy evidence the cure for any self-doubt as she rocks against his face. He closes his lips around her clit and sucks, her thighs quivering violently around him. The vibrations egg him on, tongue swirling against the pressure until he dips down further, tongue-fucking her with gusto in the hopes that she forgets everything besides his name.

Silk. Hot, wet, silk is all he thinks about as she comes against him, bucking her hips and gasping for air as her body swells in careening pleasure.

_I love you. All of you._

The ache between his legs is almost too much, but he keeps lapping at her to ease her through her ecstasy. He cocks his fingers into Betty while his mouth moves back up to her clit. Her body pulses with need, still high, still over-sensitive.

“Fuck, Jughead I—”

The word _can’t_ isn’t really in Betty’s vocabulary. He smiles, nipping playfully at her thigh before moving back down with a little wink that knocks her back into blissful _want._ With his tongue circling slowly, his fingers fucking her quickly, Betty’s senses go into overload and she comes apart, shaking as sweat erupts in a fine sheen over her whole body.

Jaw starting to ache, he works her through it, but when the pulsing subsides, he climbs back up for a reprieve, gently wiping his coated face on the expanse of her thigh. “Can I?” he pants, trying not to keen too obviously into the way she pets his hair.

“We don’t have condoms, Juggie. How do you wanna come?”

She’s on the pill, but they usually double up on protection. Still…the thought of not being inside of her is almost _painful_.

“Come on,” she murmurs, kissing his sweaty brow. “I’ll get on top.”

Grateful, sending up a silent prayer of thanks, Jughead lays on his back. The vision of a sweaty, tousled Betty blocks out the tiled ceiling, her breasts bouncing softly as she aligns them, her hand pumping his shaft experimentally before sliding down and encasing him in tight relief.

It’s overpoweringly marvelous to the point he has to squeeze his eyes shut for a second before they roll right out of his head. “You are so fucking good at that.”

Betty’s lips curve in a self-satisfied smile. Her legs are still a little shaky from the previous attention, but she manages to take his hand and slide it up the expanse of her chest, holding him there while she rocks her hips in a figure eight on top of him. For all he knows she could be drawing a pentagram or the advent calendar, but all that matters is she’s using _his_ dick to do it and it feels _great_.

“Betty,” he pleads, needing her faster.

“I know, Juggie, I know,” she shushes him, a soothing hand tracing down his neck.

In a surprising move, Betty straddles higher, almost to the point she’s off of him entirely, and reworks her feet until she’s leaning back, her foot anchored under his shoulder. Before he can ask, she rocks aggressively down on him, urging him to push into her with equal force.

His dick slides deeper than it was before, the tip pushing into a spongy ridge that makes Betty gasp so deliciously that his balls tighten in ecstasy.

“Oh, _shit,_ Betty, I’m not gonna last much—”

Her little whimper combined with her muscles tightening around him and nails dragging along his skin is enough to cut off all semblance of control.

With a guttural grunt, Jughead unleashes all the tightness in his body in quick, electric spurts. He snaps into her, pumping himself free of orgasmic heat while his hand crushes her hip and breast in its rapture. He feels her unravel again beneath him, a smaller tremor that shakes loose everything else inside him.

_I love you, Betty_.

Everything slows, but their bodies barely drift apart.

Eventually she manages to clamber back down into his arms, resting her cheek against his sticky chest. “Huh,” she pants, snuggling into drowsy satisfaction. “Should we add that to the _new holiday traditions_ list?”

He laughs a few exhausted beats before pressing a kiss to her crown. “Definitely.”

 

After presents, they Skype with her niece and nephew. They have sticky, pudgy faces and not much to say, but it seems to make Betty happy to see her family nonetheless. Betty’s packing up her bag, hair up in tousled little ponytail for traveling, a subtly festive sweater hanging past her hips. The little bear-slippers get packed out of sight and Jughead notes the way she carefully wraps the first-edition book he got her in an extra sweater so it doesn’t tatter in their travels.

“I think that went pretty well, don’t you? Next year I’ll try to bring something like a gingerbread dojo plan. Or we can use licorice and pretzel sticks to make some kind of fighting ring. What do you think?” she turns, focusing on him in alarm when she’s met with a beaming, watery smile. “Jug?”

“I love you, Betty Cooper.”

He’s overcome, bursting now that the words have finally been released, like he’s finally opened a window in a stuffy room. Knocked a whole damn wall down. They can _breathe_.

“I love you,” he repeats, almost giddy through his tears. Betty’s trembling, water gathering at her eyes as well. “I always have, and I always will.”

“Juggie,” she half-laughs, half cries as they come together. Her eyes shine up at him, the whole world reflecting, given to him. “I love _you_.”

A grateful smile breaks his face. She squeals in delight as he hoists her up, leading her back towards the couch as they pepper each other’s faces in kisses.

“Juggie, wait. We have to get back on the road.”

“But Betty,” he protests, kissing her long enough to feel breathless when they reemerge for air. She grins at him, long eyelashes hovering over her rosy cheeks as she prepares for another. “It’s tradition.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to MY amazing santa [@bugggghead](bugggghead.tumblr.com) for beta-ing this little fic. Spread some holiday cheer by leaving a kudos or a comment or say hello on [ my own tumblr](lovedinapastlife.tumblr.com). There are many new traditions here for Jughead so hopefully he enjoys them throughout the years. What did you think? Any lines that stand out to ya? Have a glorious day!


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